


That looks on tempests and is never shaken; / It is the star to every wandering bark

by liminalweirdo, slowlimbs



Series: when we hit the city limits don't forget me for a minute (tonight) [7]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Bisexual Richie Tozier, Crossdressing, Found Family, M/M, Marriage, Rimming, Weddings, heavier book references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:48:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29428368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liminalweirdo/pseuds/liminalweirdo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/slowlimbs/pseuds/slowlimbs
Summary: The Losers gather for Richie and Eddie's wedding, the missing are loved and longed for, Richie is threatened with divorce, and Eddie finds something carved into the porch railings.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: when we hit the city limits don't forget me for a minute (tonight) [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1994314
Comments: 7
Kudos: 22





	That looks on tempests and is never shaken; / It is the star to every wandering bark

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Shakespeare's Sonnet CXVI

May burns through in what feels to Eddie like a matter of seconds. Within just a few blinks, there’s spring flowers, and a wooden arch is being erected in their backyard. It’s the night before the wedding, and he and Ben are threading flowers through the lattice in the wood, and Eddie is going to vomit, he is going to throw up everywhere and turn into a leper and crawl under the house and stay there until he vomits again and dies of leprosy.

Most days (all days) he loves Richie with such a burning intensity that it hurts wounds that healed over more than a year, more than a decade, ago. Pure feeling opening the hole in his cheek and his stomach and his palm and his arm and he had to run run run until his thighs ache instead. The plus side is he’s much less tired now, with all the Losers in one place, with an entire pig in the barbecue ready to be turned on first thing tomorrow.

He thinks of bacon and he thinks of Stan and his hands tremble, a little. He thinks of the little swallow cufflinks in silver that he needs to give Richie before he goes to bed tonight. He thinks about the fact that after tonight he won’t see him until the ceremony and he already misses him somewhere low in his stomach near his kidneys and oh god it’s a kidney stone he’s developed a kidney stone, when he goes for a piss later it’s going to be blood and grit and the painful passing of a fucking kidney stone and of course this would happen the day before the wedding and—

Eddie breathes. Deep, with his watchful fawn eyes on the dimming horizon, and takes a deeper drink of white wine. There they are, the man he loves and the woman Ben loves, just a little ways across the lawn, setting down tarp to make sure that the dance floor doesn’t get ruined by the dew (and by dance floor Eddie means that gorgeous, wonderful, can’t-live-without Ben fucking Hanscom had cobbled together some wooden floorboards to make a bastardized something or other), stringing battery powered fairy lights and LED candles in the nearest trees.

Musically, Richie had talked him into a karaoke machine and the loudest Bluetooth speaker money could buy (and by talked him into, Eddie means he had done Elvis’s drawl at him and honeypie and sugared him until he’d felt unwell with giggles and pulled him into bed).

Bill and Mike, he knows, are up in the house with Peg. (They had panicked, briefly, Eddie and Richie in tandem, about there being only two spare bedrooms until Ben had told them he was driving up in his camper van “because of Toby” and it had taken them longer to remember that — yeah, the dog has a name — than they’d like to admit.) And Eddie looking over his shoulder can see Mike using plastic wrap to cover over peppers and carrots, Bill sitting on the counter, Toby-the-Dog running laps from him and Ben to Richie and Bev and back to Bill to grab treats from his fingers and—

Eddie looks at Ben, and sighs.

“What’s it like, after the ceremony? Do you still love her as much?” It sounds like a stupid question when he says it, because he’s been married, but this is real. And it scares him. That the shine will wear off. Not for him, but for Richie.

Ben smiles, sort of secretly to himself before he looks up at Eddie. “More,” he says. “It makes it… official, I guess. Like an oath. It brings you together. You know what that feels like, Eds. You nervous?”

_(With people around, Richie doesn’t feel his nerves so much. Not when he can occupy himself with making them laugh, diffusing tense situations. He’s making Bev giggle now, until both of them are laughing so hard that, when the wind picks up an edge of the tarp Bev’s supposed to be pinning down, she doesn’t notice at first, and then shrieks and has to chase after it. Richie spills his own drink trying to rescue hers and ends up with red wine dripping off of one sleeve. He lets out a string of curses, shaking it onto the grass while Bev cackles at him. Richie drinks the rest of her wine in retaliation.)_

“I don’t remember, really, marrying Myra. It’s foggy like Derry used to be.” Eddie admits in a small voice, reaching to take Ben’s empty beer bottle and pass him a fresh one. “I keep thinking I’m going to wake up tomorrow and it’s all going to be— I’ll get to the alter and be back in Neibolt.” 

Ben, with a fierceness he doesn’t normally possess thinks _we won’t let that happen to you_ even while Eddie shudders out a sigh and feels the ring he’s going to give Richie tomorrow tucked safe in his breast pocket, where it’s been since it came. “I’m not— nervous. I am, actually, I don’t know why I’m lying like that, but I’m excited as well. I’m really, really excited. It’s going to make it all real. And then nothing is going to get in our way again, you know?”

And then Peg is calling them in for dinner, KFC bags held high, and suddenly Eddie can see the family resemblance. Ben looks, too — feels all of that fizzle out like water on a hot burner. It just settles there in his chest. They’ll keep one another safe. They always have.

On the way into the house, Eddie catches Richie’s elbow and grins up at him, guides his hand to sit over where his ring is resting, and tiptoes to kiss him.“I just wanted to test drive the arch. It works.”

Richie glances up at it and says “Oh, good. Toby-the-Dog tried to test-drive it with me earlier but I told him ‘not in front of the guests.’” His thumb slides over that circle of metal and wood — one of two whiskey barrel wedding rings — beneath cloth, and above Eddie’s beating heart and feels his heart skip, his belly twist. “If I steal that from you, will you marry me with the diary entry ring?” he asks him as, one by one, the others disappear into the house. The door stays open, light thrown across the lawn — waiting for them. Richie doesn’t move. He’d holding his wine-soaked arm at an awkward angle so that it doesn’t get on Eddie’s sweater, but the proximity is nice. Especially since he feels like the growing darkness is promising a night without Eddie — the first since he came back — and Richie half thinks, tries so hard not to think — that that will break some kind of spell, and Eddie will disappear, and he will wake up tomorrow, in the (very narrow and not quite tall enough) spare bed in the van Ben and Bev brought down (where he opted to sleep, because at least it’s cramped and safe-feeling, with three of them, plus dog. He’s been making ‘no hanky-panky’ jokes to Bev and Ben for the last twelve hours and he bets they’re already sick of him. Maybe they’ll kill him in the night. Maybe this wedding won’t happen — all of those thoughts are better than the one where Eddie just isn’t there in the morning, or maybe never was.

“Absolutely not. This is something you can wear all the time.” Eddie curls his fingers around Richie’s to keep his hand there, other fingers finding the damp patch on his arm and he makes a face. “Make sure you put baking soda on that before you put it in the wash.” But there’s no anger, not even annoyance, just a small smile as he kisses him again. “You gonna miss me much tonight?” Rubbing his nose slowly against Richie’s, his thumb over the back of his hand.

Richie, instead of answering, ducks his head and catches Eddie’s lower lip in his teeth, pulling softly. He says “You know, I could just… stay with you. After midnight, it’s tomorrow.” It’s what he says instead of what he’s thinking which is _yes, yes, god yes, also I am mildly terrified_. “Isn’t there some kind of loophole?”

“We’re doing this properly,” even though what Eddie wants to say is _god, yes_ because his speech is muffled, lip bitten between Richie’s teeth, and it’s instinctive the way he wraps himself around and presses against him. They haven’t fucked in _days_ , Eddie twisting away from his hands and laughing and _wait for the wedding night. Wait, wait_ and kissing Richie breathless. He kind of regrets that now. Runs his fingers over the shadow of his morning-shaved stubble on his chin. “Leave this, tomorrow. I like you prickly.”

“That’s not what you’ve been saying to me the last few nights,” Richie teases, hand snaking down over his ass to pull him close, making the world’s loosest analogy between ‘prickly’ and ‘prick’ and just running with it because he’s scared, but not of tomorrow. He’s scared of tonight. It’s ridiculous, feels childlike, the fear, but—

From the doorway, Mike: “Guys!” soft words to the others, probably at their expense, because there is a rumbling of laughter. “Food’s gettin’ cold!”

Richie lets Eddie go. Thinks _stay_ , like a prayer. 

And Eddie, knowing, hearing somehow, tangles his hand in the front of Richie’s sweater to pull him down for a real kiss, middle finger raised to the open kitchen door, kissing him with tongue hot and heavy and wine sweet until Beverly shouts “Save it for tomorrow, horndogs!” And Eddie laughs too hard to keep kissing him.

Tomorrow. The wedding. Mr. Tozier-Kaspbrak. 

He feels lightheaded with it, with Richie here. Here. Solid and real and alive alive alive. Eddie pointedly doesn’t think about the Deadlights, about how he’d crawled over him so scared and elated and thought about kissing him and then the creeping darkness and cold. 

Instead he grips his hand tight and pulls him inside. Towards bursting light and heat and Mike with his fucking camera and the empty seat set out for Stanley.

~

Richie doesn’t even need Eddie to tell him to drink water before bed, it’s like he’s got his voice in his ear — but not in an awful Mrs. K way; it’s comforting. It’s the voice he hears in his head when he remembers to to take care of himself.

He’s too tall for the camper, but it doesn’t matter, since it’s really only got room for sleeping anyway, once the two beds are pulled out. And he does sleep, at first, lulled by the deep slow breathing of the others. The dog, unsure what to do with him, clicks back and forth a few times, and then curls up between Ben and Bev and finally, finally Richie falls asleep.

And he wakes up to darkness. Clutching, tight. The air feels different — colder than the bed should— where is Eddie? Richie reaches out for him, disoriented, thinking he’s still inside the cabin. Their cabin, their bedroom, their bed — and touches the wall instead of Eds. He sits up, “Eddie,” hissed out in a half-terrified whisper, and then — the clock on the mini fridge blinks at him in LED numbers he can’t read without his glasses. He remembers where he is, and it’s quiet enough around him that he assumes he hasn’t woken anyone. He gropes around in the sheets — cool, heavy — for his phone (blinding, he twists it away from Ben and Bev’s side of the van) and texts Eddie I hate this without his glasses, so it actually says _I hstr this_. Good enough.

Almost immediately he gets back;

 _me too_ with a little sad face, then _4 more hours til breakfast + getting ready_ then _11 hours until alter_ , and then _you should be sleeping_ in extremely quick succession.

And across from Richie Beverly lifts her head and squints at him. “You okay honey?” In a soft whisper. “It’s late, you need your sleep.” And Toby makes a grumbling noise of agreement.

“M’okay,” Richie says, and it comes out hoarse, but doesn’t worry about it, he’s already texting Eddie back _YOU SOULD BE SLEEPING_. He’s used to the bad dreams — normally he forgets them by morning. But normally Eddie’s there, warm and real and right beside him, to remind Richie that everyone is safe. He types _Let me stay with you_ and then erases it. And then _I keep thinking_ … erases that, too. 

From Eddie: _I know_ and then _I miss you too_ and _I don’t like sleeping by myself it’s cold and there’s no one here to warm my feet on_ and _goodnight Trashmouth I’ll see you later today._

Bev sighs, murmurs a ‘stay’ to the dog, then climbs across the tiny gap between their beds to curl up next to Richie. She’s smiling in the faint light from the phone. “I think I’m the only one who stopped having nightmares after.”

Richie lies on his back and stares into the phone light as Bev curls into his shoulder and knows that if he texts back, Eddie will keep texting so he doesn’t. He looks at ‘goodnight Trashmouth’ until the light goes dark and then he sighs and drops the phone onto his chest. It’s much darker now that his eyes are used to the light.

He finds her outline in the darkness — mostly her cheek and her hair — as his eyes adjust. “I’m glad one of us did, though,” he says, soft.

“I feel like maybe yours will stop after tomorrow.” Her hand is warm when it finds his, on his chest. “Something will settle and it’ll stop.” She presses her mouth to his shoulder so he can feel her smile. “I can’t wait for you to see your waistcoat. Eddies gonna flip.”

Momentary confusion about the waistcoat and then a rush of breath as he gasps, the realization washing over him. “Aw, Bev. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.” He has to press his wrist to his mouth to muffle the laughter, overwhelmed with giddy delight. Eddie is, indeed, going to flip. 

“I told you I’d find a way to make it yours.” There’s the gentle noise of her laughter, threading their fingers together over his heart, reaching down to pull the covers over them both as she settles. “Do you think you can sleep now, babe? If I stay here?”

“And risk everyone discovering our sordid affair?” he asks her, thumb sliding over her knuckles, touching the stone of her engagement ring. He thinks _eleven hours_ and wishes he could count it down in seconds or minutes instead. He sets his phone aside and exhales tension. Eleven hours. “Yeah,” he says, and thinks about Eds and wishes he were there with him. Or that Bev was. Thinks it’s not very fair that he’s alone. “You want to take us in shifts?” he asks. “Find Eds in an hour. Make sure he’s still…” _There_ , Richie thinks and his fingers squeeze hers. “Behaving.”

“Eds is fine.” Bev stretches, long and languid, yawning against the pillow and shifting so that she’s holding onto his whole arm. “I texted Peg before bed, she’s on a blow up mattress in your room. Probably having the same conversation we are right now.” She wriggles up to kiss his cheek, to press her forehead against it. “He’s still going to be there at seven a.m. when Mike kicks down the door and force feeds us french toast and mimosas.”

He snorts and says “I can’t imagine our Mike kicking anything,” but he’s relaxing. Closing his eyes, he thinks _eleven hours_ and, timing his breathing to Beverly’s he eventually does sleep and this time, thankfully, it’s dreamless.

~

Morning, and the weather is grey but promises to clear by noon. It’s not raining, at least. Ben wakes them up by tossing a pillow at Richie’s head and saying “Get out of bed with my wife, Trashmouth,” and Beverly is laughing and Richie gropes for his glasses and then his phone and _Tell me how many hours_ just to get a response. It means _I missed you_ , it means _I was worried_.

They go into the house where Eddie is Not Allowed Downstairs and Richie Not Allowed Up. There really is french toast and mimosas and Richie desperately _wants_ to eat, because it smells amazing, but also can’t really, and he thinks that’s probably for the best anyway. Still, his plate comes with silver swallow cufflinks and a note that says ‘sorry I forgot to give these to you last night’ in Eddie’s familiar scrawl, along with a little heart and Richie is reminded, for a second, so hard of that diary entry that he wants to go upstairs and get it, just to _hold_. It’s funny, though, because he sees those little silver swallows and immediately realizes two things: First, he thinks of Stanley because of course, of _course_ and, second, he realizes that he’d completely fucking forgotten that he needed cufflinks at all and so once again, Eddie has the foresight to save the day. 

Peg takes away his second(? third?) mimosa and says “Have a _piece_ of toast at least, you fucking loser,” and then watches him like a hawk to make sure he does it. It does help, actually, settle the seasick feeling in his gut, and so does the coffee. From upstairs there’s a rush of laughter that sounds like Bill and Ben but not Eddie and Richie’s stomach twists for a different reason. He looks at Bev and says “He’s going to start freaking out within like _five_ minutes, I guarantee it.”

As if on cue there’s the rumble of Bens voice saying— something soothing. The clatter of his brogues coming downstairs. He’s already in his suit, fashionably shaved, pale greys and tiny tiny mustard details. He kisses Bev, claps Richie on the shoulder (Richie gives Bev an All Seeing look, but there’s anxiety in his eyes) and then goes into the downstairs bathroom to find their first aid kit and grab Eddie’s emergency aspirator, winking at them on his way back to the stairs, doubling on himself to come back to the table and pour a drink that is mostly champagne with only a little orange juice. 

By the time he gets back upstairs and presses both the inhaler and the glass into Eddies hands, Eddie has cut his chin shaving.

“It’s underneath, man, no one will notice.” And Bill is patching him up, Eddies head tipped back, folded tissue dabbing against the tiny scratch. “You should let one of us. You’re shaking too much.”

Eddie honks loudly at the aspirator in response.

Downstairs, Richie has gone dead silent, listening and — after a moment or two — the sound of Eddie hitting the aspirator. _Fuck_ , he heard that in his fucking dreams. It fucking haunted him at sixteen, shaking him out of a dead sleep in a cold sweat. He winces and Peg, taking pity on him decides to harass him some more so she kicks his chair leg. “Are you going to shave? You should do it before you change, because—”

“I’m not allowed,” Richie says, and that helps at least. He wants Eds. Suddenly, overwhelmingly, he just wants to get this over with so that he has Eddie _here_ , with him. 

“Do you need anything else? Like… Gravol or something? I know what you’re like.”

“There is some,” Richie says. “And no.”

“Ring,” Peg says, “Vows.”

“Yes.”

He’s listening for another hit on that aspirator because that means things are particularly bad. It feels almost exactly like that precarious moment right before your feet leave the Quarry’s ledge, and you’re falling—

_There’s a few more minutes of quiet talking from the stairs, from the meters of distance between them (“You’re not fucking shaving me” “Then you need to stop shaking” “Gimme the mimosa” “Not until you stop shaking” “Fuck you, Ben, you’re not my mother” “You’re marrying the guy who fucked her so, no, no I’m not”) before there’s the high flying birdcall of Eddie laughing._

_(And for the record, he won’t deny it later when Ben takes his razor very gently from his fingers and finishes the job for him, eyes narrowed in concentration.)_

“See? He’s fine. Everyone gets nervous.” Beverly tells Richie from where she’s running a brush over and over and over his suit, making absolutely sure that there’s no German shepherd hairs on it. “Look at this, instead.” She hands him a dry cleaner’s bag and kisses his forehead. “That’s your vest.”

Somewhere in his periphery, Richie can see Peg’s head tilt — curious and a little baffled at the dynamic between all of them. The Losers. Richie slides the zipper down and slips the vest out of the plastic. It’s the same rich, dark green as the suit, but the back: the silk back of it is printed in loud, glorious Hawaiian. Richie just about dies laughing. He has to take his glasses off to wipe the tears from his eyes. And Peg groans. “You’re enabling him!”

And Bev, giggling and pink cheeked herself, shakes her head. “ _I_ am taking the edge off. _You_ are enabling him by giving him something to rebel against.”

As Richie’s laughter floats upstairs, Bill laughs “Jesus christ.” He is lingering in the doorway to the bathroom, arms folded, watching the shaving. “That sounds ominous.”

“I don’t want to know.” Eddies eyes flicker to him, chin still pointed to the ceiling. But he does want to know. He wants to know everything that’s going on down there. He hates this. He hates being away from Richie in the same fucking house. And Ben hums at him, turning his head this way and that.

“I think you’re good.” He flicks the scratch on his throat to make him wince and tosses a towel at him.

“Thanks, Ben.” He turns to look at himself in the mirror, still a little green, and too thin and too pale and fuck—. He lets out a slow shuddering breath. “Can you get my cufflinks, Bill? On the bureau. I think if I move I’ll puke.”

Bill laughs, sympathetic, fond. “You look good, Eds,” he says, “It’ll be fine.” It’s funny saying that to him in his button down and boxers, but he does mean it, somehow.

He ventures into the bedroom to find them. The air mattress Peg slept on is still set up — they’ll have to move that, he makes a mental note to remember that. The cuff links are in a small, soft velvet pouch where Eddie said they would be — he can tell by feel — and he brings them in to him in the bathroom, untying the pouch and shaking them out into his palm because he doesn’t entirely trust Eddie not to drop them down the drain with the quivering he’s doing. “Here,” he says, and reaches for his wrist so he can put them on.

But something stops him, and he goes still.

Eddie is already holding out his wrist, still shaking, glances down into Bill’s palm and looks very much like he’s been slapped in the face.

“Bill I—.” _I’m sorry, I forgot they were_ , maybe. _I just wanted us all together_ , more likely.

Because Eddie remembers Georgie, too. Remembers getting carpet burns on his knees playing trains with him and thinks — _shit, trains would have been better_ , but the paper boats had been Georgie’s thing. He’d loved sitting beside Bill, watching his clever fingers.

And Eddie’s face kind of crumples in on itself, waiting, maybe, for anger.

For a moment Bill hears rain in his ears, thundering down all around him, and then he swallows and it’s chatter from somewhere downstairs and the sounds of his friends and— “Now I know it was y-y-you who thought of this, and not r-Richie,” he says and then, “Not Richie,” like trying to remind himself that he _doesn’t_ still have that stutter. He touches one of the boats, delicate and perfect and feels his face do something similar to Eddie’s, crumpling. “He’s got no fucking tact.”

“I just wanted everyone to be together.” Eddies saying in a small voice, through the thunder and the rain in Bill’s mind, watching him move the tiny pieces of metal with a fingertip and; “Richie’s got swallows.”

“Stan,” Bill says, and then meets his eyes. He folds the boats up in his hand and then reaches out, ignoring the possibility of movement making Eddie puke, and wraps him up tight in his arms. No back slapping. This is like kids; tight enough to hurt a little, and profoundly grateful for this easy comfort. He knows he’s crying and his chest tightens and tightens against it but finally a sob does break free, and it shatters something he’s needed broken. “Shit, I’m c-crying on your s-sh-sh-”christ “ _Fucking_ shirt,” he gets the word it with so much effort it makes him laugh. He starts trying to straighten the back of Eddie’s button down where he had a fistful of it, wipes his nose on the back of the hand he’s still holding the cufflinks in.

“I’ll be wearing a jacket that Richie is almost definitely going to cry on, later.” Eddie grins at him and wipes his own eyes, then pulls him back into the hug as tight as he can. After a few seconds, he feels Ben’s arms go around them both, safe and secure in Eddie’s bathroom.

And it’s only right, Eddie thinks. It’s only right that Bill should be allowed this today, because as happy as it is there will always be that thread of golden sadness tinging their lives. _Kintsugi_. Making every day more beautiful for the bittersweet.

~

The sun comes out, mostly. Not as much as it was supposed to but Peg keeps saying that it’s better for pictures anyways.

Richie doesn’t care, at that point. He’s too busy wondering where he might be able to puke quietly and privately without getting anything on this suit which is, undoubtedly, the nicest thing he’s ever worn, so _that_ would be a shame. 

Mike, gets him some water and stands at his hip while he drinks it at the kitchen table and then asks him again if he wants Gravol but Richie knows makes him super tired, so no, he doesn’t. 

And then it isn’t eleven hours or six or three, it’s half an hour and then twenty minutes, ten, and suddenly he’s standing where he’s supposed to be, at the altar, eyes flickering over this small little group, this gathering, trying to focus on something other than the way he’s shaking. He runs his thumb over one of the swallow cufflinks over and over.

~

By the time Ben says ‘it’s time’ Eddie is already at the bottom of the stairs, Ben having to slide down the banister and sprint past him to take his place next to Bev, giving Richie a brief thumbs up and turning in his seat as Eddie steps out into the garden.

They didn’t pick any music for him to walk to. Eddie had wanted birdsong. Had wanted so desperately to keep their absent friends close.

And despite the fact that the sun is shy, Eddie’s face is summer bright, loose limbed as he strides the distance between them (“almost too quick for photos.” Beverly will grouse at him later, twinkling with wine) because now it’s real. It’s really real. And Richie looks _amazing_. Shoulders broad in a forest green jacket, dark like the moss under the trapdoor of the Clubhouse, tapered and wonderful. Eddie just wants to get his hands on him and the yard feels like it’s ten miles long.

“Hey.” He says, finally, finally, beaming up into Richie’s face as he takes his place next to him, ignoring the playful roll of Mike’s eyes.

All Richie’s breath leaves him at once when he sees him, and he inhales in this whisper-soft “Ohjesus,” that no one else can hear — (he hopes. Bill hears) — because he’s lovely — obviously, Richie knew he would be, but there’s something about the lush purple velvet that harks back to the Chinese restaurant, Eddie in dark, rich colours like summer fruits, that make his eyes darker and half-ethereal, doe-like, Richie thinks, dark chocolate and wine. 

And “Hey,” Eddie says like it’s nothing, positively beaming, and Richie smiles back, lights up his whole face and it’s “Hi,” like he hasn’t seen him in ages and ages. (It feels like it). He reaches out and takes his hand and forgets if he’s even supposed to or not and also doesn’t care. He squeezes, and for the first time since they parted ways last night, it feels like he can take a full breath.

  
And Eddie squeezes back, something in his face flickering _that’s better_ , pulling himself close just to touch over the lapel of his jacket, face tilting up and—

Mikes hand in his face, stopping him.

“Oh no you don’t, not yet.” He grins at him, wrinkles around his eyes, and temples coming in a little silver these days (and Eddie thinks of Bill’s old bike, and he misses it). “Now you all know why we’re gathered here today. To watch these two Losers marry each other. I understand you’ve written your own vows?”

Eddie nods, in his vague direction, eyes still on Richie. On Richie’s lips. His eyes. The well-groomed curls (he will kiss Peg for that, later).

“Then you don’t need me until the end. Eddie?”

And Eddie breathes in as deep as he can, and somewhere he hears Beverly say “oh goodie, a Classic Kaspbrak,” and he huffs it all out in one laugh and has to start over:

“When I was 14 I wrote in a diary about you. I wrote about kissing you, and wanting to do it again, and wanting to call you. And, life got in the way. We moved on. We said goodbye in the rain and went about our lives. And the thing is, Trashmouth, you were right when you said that we needed to live those lives to get here. Yeah, laugh it up, take it to the bank, in this one instance you’re right.” He’s still looking at Richie, wriggling his fingers in the gaps of his, arching his eyebrows at him because _fuck you, you get this once._

Breathes in again.

“We’ve been circling each other for years. You know how planets and stars do that? What I’m saying is, you have this gravitational pull, for me. It’s this deep, goddamn flow of feeling, all the time.” And if his hands were free he’d be gesturing, wildly, trying to get his point across better than he is.

“When we were 14 I pulled a beesting out of your hand and I kissed you, and you asked me if I was going to kiss your hand better, and then you ran. And I couldn’t keep up. Without living my life the way I have, and you living yours, I would have never caught up.

Now, standing with you here in front of all our friends, and the only family I have… the only family I want, I don’t understand how I let that happen. I can’t imagine loving anyone so much. A million years ago we pinkie promised and crossed our hearts, and now I’m doing it again.” There are tears in Richie’s eyes, he realises, feels heat and salt around the edges of his own and purses his lips so his voice doesn’t choke.

Realises, suddenly, that he doesn’t have his notes for this. 

He doesn’t need them. He knows, always, exactly what his heart holds for Richie.

“Richie Tozier, I pinkie promise to be here when you need me. I pinkie promise to spend the rest of my life by your side, trying to iron wrinkles out of both your shirts and your face. I pinkie promise to continue to provide you with excellent material for your shows. I pinkie promise to bring you coffee when you’re hung over, and to remember that I’m braver than I think I am, and to never take any facet of you for granted. 

Today, I’m not only crossing my heart, I’m giving it to you. It was you in a clearing when I was fourteen, eating blackberries, and it’s you now when I’m forty. It’s always been you, and it always will be. You saved me. You turned my face, and broke my arm worse, and you saved me. You’re the bravest man I know. The funniest, the most caring, and the best. You remember things and people in a way that no one else does. And you see me for who I am, and you want me anyway. I have never, and will never, love anyone like I love you. You taught me to scream bullshit at the things I was scared of, you’ve given me breath without needing to wheeze, and you help me see that life isn’t made for fear. It’s made for us. As a team, as a partnership (whether that’s in love, in crime or anything in between), and all of us together as a family. All of us whether we’re here or not.”

And he hears “yeah, another Classic Kaspbrak,” from Ben (and his voice is a little thick, and maybe he’s crying too, but Eddie isn’t. He refuses to cry over the weight of his own words), hears Beverly laugh, and he’s fairly sure he’s breaking Richie’s fingers with the strength of the grip he has on him.

“If I had to go back, I’d do it all again. Every single second. All of it. I promise today to remind you of that for the rest of our lives together.”

And Richie is shivering so hard he’s sure that it’s probably visible to every single person here. He tries to keep it together, squeezes Eddie’s fingers back until there’s white marks in both their hands that will turn red, later, then fade. He clenches his jaw against the chattering of his teeth, that’s how hard he’s shaking, but it has nothing to do with fear. It’s that wild, chaos, that frenetic hum — wanting Eddie’s eyes on him always, wanting this, for more than half his life, just not knowing exactly how or why, or even that it was possible. 

And for a moment, after Eddie’s done, he’s lost. Forgets he’s supposed to do anything at all, he’s just looking at him until Mike says, gently, “Richie.”

And Richie shakes himself a little, says, “Fuck, and now I’m supposed to follow that up?” One handed, he fishes out the vows he wrote. The paper is very very folded and creased like he’s folded and unfolded it a thousand times since yesterday when he’d had to lean back from his seat on the couch and shout to Mike on the front porch if he was allowed to say ‘fuck’ or not.” He shakes the paper open, one-handed, still holding onto Eddie with the other. And Eddie’s not crying so he is also, decidedly, not crying, but he has to blink a few times to actually see the words on the page. 

“I, uh… I guess I never actually thought that I would get married. And, hm, neither did anyone else, apparently.” He looks up. “In brackets, I wrote ‘Bev.’ Thanks a lot, Bev. Showed you.”

Half reading, half improvising, he says: “It’s been kind of a fucked up journey to get here. Like, we did everything right, but it ended up feeling backwards anyway. And I know it’s been hard, sometimes, and like— scary, for reasons that are mundane and, uh, not, but mostly, thank christ, mundane. Still sometimes just as scary. But, the thing is, is that I knew that you’d always— you know, be there, even when I fucked up for the fortieth time, you’d still be there to call me an idiot, at least, so, thank you. And I hope you know that I plan to return that favour every day for the rest of my natural life, and whatever the fuck happens after that.”

He looks up from the paper, finally, and into Eddie’s eyes. He’s stopped shaking now, because this he knows. He knows what he wants to say:

“But you made me brave, Eds. Ever since I can remember. You’re the reason I’m standing here right now, today. Because without you I’d still be hiding, I know I would. You gave that to me without taking anything in return, because you’re wonderful, and brave as hell, and I’m… seriously just in awe of you, every day, for always holding true to who you are. For not letting anyone, anyone, change the best parts of you. And you’re going to look at me like ‘I’m not that great.’ Look, there it is on your face, I can see your brows furrowing. But fucking believe me, when I tell you that it’s every part of you — your bravery, and how fucking chaotic we used to be together, and still kind of are together, and your aspirator, and your freckles and your very long lectures about tetanus and cholesterol and all the rest — your anxiety, because you care so much. About us, and life, and doing things the right way— all of that is you, and where was I going with this? Oh, right: every time I started getting scared I just had to look at you and that was it. That was all I needed to remember why I was doing all this scary, fucking terrifying shit, and I’d’ve… I would… do fucking anything for you; including coming out at forty-one. And all the rest of it. Because… because I was waiting for you, all my life. And I could keep waiting because I knew, somehow, that you were waiting for me too.

So. Neither of us; none of us, really, are any stranger to oaths. We’re finally at the vows part, see, I knew I’d get us there eventually. In a fucked up kind of not very smooth segue, sorry. Um.” He needs the paper now, he thinks. He stares down at it and all the things he wrote and then crossed out and re-wrote, suddenly second-guessing himself. 

Buying time: “No one’s even told me to shut up yet, because they can’t. This is awesome… Okay…” He balls the paper up and makes to throw it but Bill reaches out fast and takes it from him, pocketing it in case he actually does need it or want it later. He gives Richie a look like: _You’d better have a plan, Trashmouth._

“I really didn’t— I feel like we’ve already said so much of this, you know, we say it just… day to day, and that’s probably when it counts the most, but… I guess I’m supposed to say it now, in front of like, ten other people who have _not_ seen me naked, which is pretty awkward, when you think about it, but whatever. I… Eddie.” Richie laughs a little, realizing he’s bordering on tangential and— and meeting Eddie’s eyes, holding them. 

“I love you. I can’t actually ever remember not. And I made it my life’s mission to drive you absolutely fucking crazy just so you’d pay attention to me, but I think you liked it, so… I’m gonna keep doing that. But also, also, I—” (lost so much time with you, but we still have right now) “—I promise to not take you for granted. I promise to love you for who you are, and who you were, and who you will be. I um, I promise to not tell you that your music choices are terrible _every_ time you take over the aux cord, but reserve the right to tell you sometimes. Man, there’s suddenly a lot I want to say to you, and I know I’m going to forget something.” And then, somewhat metaphysically: “I promise to hold fast, through all of the memories we have, and the ones we forgot, no matter what they hold. I promise to always be on your side, and by your side, and I promise to wait for you again if I have to, no matter how long it takes. And to never forget we’re partners, even if what we call it changes today. I promise to stay, and I—” (came back from the deadlights when I heard your voice) “—I promise to follow you anywhere. Even impossible places. Cross my heart.”

And he does.

“Okay, I have one last thing to say, fuck, and then I’ll shut up: The reason I struggled so much with what to call you; like ‘boyfriend’ or, even ‘partner’, which should’ve been right because you are my partner, in all things. Namely putting up with me. But, it was because the words sounded wrong, and it wasn’t— it had nothing to do with what anyone else thought, they just sounded wrong, even in my head. Somehow I always knew that I wanted to call you something else — besides, like, fuckwad — but, um… anyway, I realized, one day — a kind of embarrassingly long time after we decided to do this — I realized that the word I’d been looking for all along, for you…” 

And then it hits him. Hard. That he’s standing here about to marry Eddie. _His_ Eddie. Eds. And it’s fucking real and Richie’s overcome. He tries to keep going, but his breath shakes, cracks. He makes a really good effort at getting it together but just can’t seem to speak without genuinely breaking down so he just pushes his glasses up and presses his fingers into his eyes and holds his breath so he doesn’t just start sobbing here in front of everyone. 

Very quietly, Eddie says “Unbeep, Richie,” and that’s enough. Richie laughs, and it’s all tangled and mixed up with his tears, but it eases the ache in his throat. “The word I was looking for, Eds, was ‘husband’. My husband.”

 _Yes_ , he thinks, _That’s it. That’s good._

He clears his throat, drudges up his Richie Tozier Comedian Voice from somewhere and nudges Eddie a little. “On that note, let’s officially tie this fuckin’ knot so that I can call you that legally. Mike? What do you say?”

“Bill, the rings?” Mike says instead of, like Richie, completely losing his shit. He can see tears on Eddie’s cheeks but Eddie isn’t crying, not in the traditional sense, and later Mike will think about how he’s never seen that kind of love in anyone’s eyes before. How he’s never been in the presence of two people so dedicated to one another. After all, he thinks, Eddie clawed his way out of Hades just following the idea of Richie.

And by sheer luck, even though all of them look back constantly over the years of horror and pain and for the rest of them - forgetting, Eddie is still here with them.

Bill hands Richie a ring, and then Eddie, and steps back to mop at his eyes with a handkerchief. Because it’s a lot. The paper boats folded in metal on Eddies wrists, Richie’s not-quite-matching but matching _anyway_ cufflinks glinting in the sun as they untangle their hands and shake them out in unison.

And at last; “I, Eddie Francis Kaspbrak take you, Richie Trashmouth Tozier as my lawfully wedded husband.” Eddie’s hands are trembling, thin fingers fumbling as he slides the ring onto Richie’s, and he thinks like firecrackers; _husband husband husband_. Richie, his husband, and it’s been real for months but this is physical and visceral.

Richie wants to squeeze his hand again, feels a little untethered now, but somewhere at his back, Bill sort of sniffles and Richie can see the flash of Bev’s red hair in his periphery and Mike is, and always has been, a quiet comforting presence in ways Richie, as a teenager, had secretly wished he’d been able to achieve. 

He bets Stanley would cry. He wishes— 

But they are all here, he thinks, if you believe...

And he does. 

And then Eddie is putting that black, whiskey barrel ring on his finger, and Richie breathes a laugh because they’re both shaking so much, but this is so different from fear, so different from sewers and abandoned houses and lepers and clowns. This is something stronger.

“And I, Richard Wentworth Tozier—” he says, really doing his very best (and mostly failing) not to roll his eyes at how much he hates his full name, but also not quite being able to sandwich ‘Richie’ and ‘Wentworth’ together for a several reasons. He also, very maturely he thinks, refrains from calling Eds ‘Eddie Spaghetti Kaspbrak’, although it sparks a smile around his mouth when he thinks it. “—take you, Edward Francis Kaspbrak, as my lawfully wedded husband.” A sharp, shivering breath as he does the same— Eddie’s ring wood and silver — not gold. So different from the one he’d worn before. And then he doesn’t let go. His right hand clutching Eddie’s left, eyes riveted on his eyes, his face.

And then Mike is saying “Fucking kiss, then, I now pronounce you husbands”, Eddie surging forward like floodwater to loop his arms around Richie’s neck and press their mouths together. He doesn’t need telling twice. And still under the bones of his ribs the muscle that stopped beating and started over again (both for Richie, both for Richie) forces adrenaline and _husband husband husband_ through his veins. 

“May I present Mr. and Mr. Tozier-Kaspbrak.” Mike is laughing, somewhere to his left, and Eddie grins on Richie’s tongue at the cheer that goes up from the five people they’d chosen to share this with them.

“I love you.” Just for Richie, quiet and private, eyes open and on his.

Hands on Eddie’s cheeks, eyes on his, Richie manages “I love you, too,” before he’s overwhelmed again, and embarrassed, mostly, because he has it in his head that he doesn’t cry, not really (even though the others know the real truth), but he is crying now, (again, already) — and he pulls Eddie into him and presses his face into his hair, arms tight around him, hiding a little. 

It still feels a little unreal, but realer by the second — the voices of the others around them, Ben laughing, somewhere. Richie redoubles his grip on Eddie, chest shaking, and the smell of him helps, the comforting hold.

~

The night closes in quicker than any of them anticipate, fairy lights twinkling in the trees and—. Eddie kind of regrets letting Richie take over the alcohol. It’s too much. There is far too much wine for seven people, too much tequila and — actually Ben is very good at mixing cocktails. 

And he’s married. Eddie Kaspbrak — Eddie Tozier-Kaspbrak is married for the second time in his life. Keeps spinning his ring around his finger, watching Richie and Peg laughing and scrolling through her phone.

And Eddie doesn’t regret not getting a wedding photographer. Because this is perfect. This is everything he ever wanted. His stomach is full of hog roast and apple sauce, and he’s sitting next to Stan’s empty chair, drinking for both of them. The lights are twinkling and the music is all at once awful and terrible and he loves him. He loves Richie. He really does. And Bill has been wonderful, has apologized a million times and pulled him into a million hugs and— Eddie eventually had taken his cufflinks off and given them to him. And now he’s getting up, wobbling on his feet and going to Richie. Going to his husband. Wraps an arm around him and tucks himself into his side. “Wanna dance?” 

Richie’s fucking face hurts from smiling all day, but he still smiles down at Eds anyway. He absently runs his fingers down the line of Eddie’s lapel, smoothing it where it doesn’t need to be. He says “Yes,” and then “I’ve hardly seen you,” which is true. Weddings are surreal. “Would you like to dance to Rock the Casbah?” he jokes. “I’m sure I have that on this mix somewhere.”

“That,” Eddie says, frowning at him playfully, “is a terrible first dance song. We’re getting divorced immediately.” And it’s nice to hear Peg laugh, like maybe he’s been worrying about nothing, and maybe he is fun after all, because he can make people laugh like Richie sometimes. He slides a hand under his jacket to feel the silk of his vest and grins.

The thing that saves Richie from how much he wants more of that touch, from wondering if they can disappear, early, for half an hour, is the fact that he knows what his suit jacket is hiding and that makes him grin, fiendishly at him. “I’ll find something,” he says and kisses his cheek before going to change the music. 

The song playing cuts out mid-way and the sudden silence is jarring enough that people turn. Richie waves one long arm (bourbon in hand) and says “Sorry. It’s my wedding, fuck all of you, I’m changing the song.” And he does, after a moment of debate.

Piano and drums. It’s not exactly a first-dance kind of song, but it always reminds him of Eddie.

_Then the North Star,_  
_Guiding us home in your friend's car,_  
_Will we ever take a chance or will we restart?_  
_The sky’s a map, it’s guiding back to my heart…_

He crosses the grass to Eddie again, and takes his hand, tugging him in the direction of the dance floor like he knows he’s going to tell him they can’t dance to this.

But Eddie doesn’t. He doesn’t say that and he thinks to himself privately that that fact alone shows both growth and regression. What he does instead is shimmy his hips, the bones knocking against Richie’s, just grinning and grinning and grinning like his face will split with sheer happiness. And then his hand is in Richie’s, cradled between their chests, swaying slightly faster than they had at Bev and Bens wedding (Richie laughs wildly, delighted, and this, Eddie thinks smugly, is better), before he tucks his face into Richie’s neck.

“Do you think anyone would notice if we fucked off for a bit?” Followed by “I love you.” And then “Ha, you married me, you sucker.”

_And then we're home,_  
_When we hit the city limits don't forget me for a minute tonight._

~

About two hours and three songs into karaoke later, Richie hops onto the makeshift stage, saying something low in Bev’s ear that makes her grin like a fiend as he goes through the song option. Mic in his hand he feels that wild, zinging energy rushing through him _Eddie, Eddie look at me look at me!_

 _That’s really never going to go away_ , he thinks, rather gleefully, _is it?_

“This one goes out to that really short guy in the purple suit. Hey. Yeah, you. The most beautiful man in the crowd.” He laughs soft, almost shy into the mic and then grins this shit-eating grin and presses play on the next song.

“Oh _no_.” Eddie’s laughing, pink cheeked, pressing his face against the meat of Ben’s shoulder and shaking his head. “No. _No_.” Because occasionally his boyfriend — _husband_ — is the most embarrassing thing in the entire world. So much for not having the cringe factor at forty-odd. And it’s fucking _Elvis_ , because it’s _always_ fucking Elvis that Richie sings at him when he wants to distract him from whatever task is at hand. Richie’s _perfected_ the deep throated warble, and can’t quite get the hip shimmy right, but…

It’s still kind of sexy, watching him do this. Like it’s kind of sexy watching his stand up, now. Now he knows who he is. Now he knows that he can meet him afterwards and climb him like a fucking tree. And instead of sitting with his face hidden in his hands like he wants to he sits up straighter, whoops like he did at Richie’s comeback show, and watches the entirety of the Losers (apart from Peg, who makes a show of sticking her fingers down her throat) lose their _shit_ by shouting: “yeah baby! Take it off!” at him.

Anyway (Richie thinks) he has the best friends in the entire world. Pretty awkwardly, one arm at a time because he’s holding that goddamn mic, he makes a very big show about finding it _very_ difficult to extract himself from the sleeves of the suit jacket, shimmying out of them. He only misses a couple of the words. He’s doing great. He lassos that sucker once around his head and then chucks it in the vicinity of Bill and Mike who both grab for it like it’s a fucking bouquet or something. Heart racing because sometimes it’s simultaneously terrifying and wonderful to have all eyes on him, but especially Eddie’s eyes, and Eddie’s eyes are on his — Richie needs to make sure that they are — because he shimmies his shoulder and does a neat spin on one heel to reveal the bright Hawaiian-print silk back of the waistcoat.

And for Eddie, what started as a gleeful screech ends in: “ _DIVORCE!_ ” and an accusing finger pointed at him, laughing so hard his stomach hurts. Of course. He’d put him in charge of his own suit and he’d picked _beautifully_ , but this is still the Trashmouth. He’s still married to the fucking Trashmouth, and he’d trusted Beverly with making their clothes, so— “Disowned!” At her while she screams and throws dollar bills at the stage, one hand holding her phone up to video him.

Richie laughs so hard he almost chokes, doubled over and fucking howling. He picks up the bills and pushes them into the font of his pants and says to Bev; “I’m fucking keeping these,” before he manages to finish the last bar of the song, flushed, bright-eyed, practically vibrating chaotic energy. Into the mic he finds Eddie’s eyes and says, breathless “Bet you’ve never wanted to kiss me so bad in your life,” grinning like the cat that got the cream.

“Me and Ben are running away together.” Eddie shouts back, but it’s all choked up with laughter, shoulders shaking and face fucking aching. “I’m getting rid of you first thing in the morning, Tozier, that vest is _hideous_.”

“That’s fucking rude Eddie I _made_ that vest! And you can’t have Ben!”

“Fuck you Beverly we’re getting the first flight to Hawaii!”

“Aw baby, Trashmouth brings Hawaii to _you_ ”, Richie says, suddenly at his left shoulder, throwing his arms around him in a slightly sweaty hug, rocking them both, face pressed into Eddie’s hair.

“You’re so unfashionable it embarrasses me.” But he doesn’t have it in him to even sound grumpy. He’s too drunk. Tucks his face into Richie’s neck and with that same chaotic wildness, bites him just hard enough to sting. “I insist you take that off immediately.”

“Ow!” Richie pulls back, unbuttons the vest. “Jesus, Eds, there’s still guests here,” he says, and starts on the collar of his button down as well “But if you insist.”

“I do.” Oh so he wants to play this game. On their wedding night. Fine. Eddie can match him and more. He leans back, smirking, one eyebrow raised as he watches him. “Sorry I don’t have any bills to stuff in your g-string, Chastity, but I think Bev’s got you covered.”

“If he’s actually wearing a g-string I need to see. For science.” Bev’s still giggling, still filming them, leaning into Ben. “I’ll name my next lingerie line after you, Trashmouth.”

“Please do,” Richie says to Bev, grinning at Eddie’s smirk, at his raised eyebrow. _Okay, Spaghetti_ , he thinks. “That’s okay sugar, I’ve been known to do a favour or two,” Richie says, dropping first to one knee, then both in front of him (to a chorus of _beep beeps_ ), reaching for the button of Eddie’s pants.

“Getthefuckaway!” Slapping at his hands, fingers curling around his own belt as he arches away from him and goes crimson. He has his own reasons for not wanting the others to see him, right now. Reasons he’d chased Ben and Bill out of the bedroom for. “ _You’re_ stripping, not me, fuck the fuck off, Rich.”

Richie climbs back to his feet laughing and reaches for Eddie’s hand, thumb sliding over the smooth wood of Eddie’s wedding ring — the one that’s tied to his, the one that tucks R+E against the heartline of his ring finger the same as Richie’s does. “I think we should fuck off,” Richie says, loudly, to anyone who’s listening. “It’s getting awfully late. Very tiring day, you know,” he says, kind of pushing, crowding Eddie towards the house.

And living with Richie — loving Richie — has made Eddie the kind of stand up comedian crass Richie had tried so hard to avoid in the flower shop. He laughs, head tipped back, pulse thrumming through his veins and across wood and metal rings to pass to Richies body. A pulse which had almost been silenced forever, one that he’s sure wouldn’t have restarted without Richie happening to stay in Derry. “Bye guys!” He calls over his shoulder, fingers tangling with his— with his _husband’s_ oh jesus christ, “I’m gonna go get fucked by my _husband_!”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Bev calls.

“Well jesus,” Richie says, “That means we can do anything we want.”

And, oh, Eddie’s going to kiss Bev Marsh on the fucking mouth tomorrow, because she’s turning the music up and opening another bottle of champagne as they rush into the kitchen, leaving them behind.

And then they’re alone inside, just them, their space, and Richie kisses Eddie against the fridge, smiling so hard against his mouth his face hurts and it’s kind of not a very good kiss and “You love my Hawaiian vest.” Which is still undone, as is his shirt. He looks like a weird, middle-aged pirate. 

“I love it so much I’m going to put it straight in the fire.” Twisting his hands in the fabric of it, and the kiss is just their teeth knocking against each other because neither of them know how to control their fucking faces apparently. “— trying to fucking strip me in front of everyone, the fuck, you said you didn’t _want_ to do the garter thing in front of everyone—.”

Richie makes a noise like a small creature dying and almost collapses, pressing his face into Eddie’s neck. “Are you fucking serious?” he whispers. “I’ll die.”

“You can’t die yet you haven’t changed your will so I get all your riches, Richard.” Cackling, arms around his shoulders, head fallen back against the fridge. “You didn’t carry me across the threshold either. I’m not sure you deserve the whole stockings and garters thing that I _know_ you’ve been thinking about for months.”

“You didn’t carry me across the threshold either,” Richie says, recovering enough to run his thumbs over the edges of Eddie’s nose, over his cheeks. “I can carry you across the threshold of our bedroom though if you like, but you’re gonna have to make the steps on your own, my knees can’t take it.

“Mm, you are an old man. Maybe I should have married someone younger.” Grins, brushes their noses together and pulls him in for another kiss. A real one, not just teeth, licking as deeply as he can into his mouth to take the sting of the words away, to show he doesn’t mean it. “Fine. But I’m going up first and you’re going to touch my ass while I do it.”

Richie cackles, spinning him around and pushing him into the hallway before doing _exactly_ as he’s told, following him up to their bedroom where someone (Bill) has cleared away the camping mattress Peg had used, leaving everything exactly as it’s always been. Theirs. And suddenly— “God, fuck, I—” Richie says, coming up short as he closes the door softly behind them, eyes finding Eddie in the soft lamplight.

“I know.” As he flops onto his ass at the end of the bed and toes his shoes off without undoing them. “Thirteen year old Eddie is wetting himself right now, I promise.”

He laughs a little, glad that Eddie has saved him from the overwhelming sappiness of that moment because he doesn’t think his thirteen year old self would’ve been able to contain the happiness, the adoration, the overwhelming love that he feels. 

He follows him to the bed, pulling his shirt out of his pants, finally shedding it and that vest. He holds it up as he toes out of his shoes (graceless, with difficulty). “Sure you don’t want me to just wear this?” he asks, holding it up, Hawaiian side facing Eddie. “Like Aladdin.” Grins.

“Go sleep in the fucking campervan.” Kicks at him with one foot, white mesh over his toes and ankle, then hooking it around the back of his knee to pull him between his legs. “I don’t want you to be wearing anything right now. I’ve been thinking about this literally all night.” Runs his hands up over his chest, through all that dark hair, and thinks about how easy it is now. Derry, the Townhouse, a million miles and years away. “I need soup.”

The laughter that bubbles up from deep within his chest then is kind of tangled with overwhelm. Everything they’ve been through — the Townhouse, Eddie soaked with old blood and sewer water and everything, _everything_ that came after that. The moment Richie’s life began again. “I love you so much,” he whispers, reverent, as he steps between his leg, one hand reaching back to catch him under the knee as he kisses him. “Take these fucking pants off right now,” breathless with laughter and want and this quivering, impossible, brilliant happiness, as he reaches for the clasp of Eddie’s pants, undoing the zipper.

“Ohh, _bossy_.” Snapping his teeth playfully at his mouth, lifting his hips a little with thighs tight against Richie’s, his own fingers hooking into his belt loops. “What if I say ‘make me’, huh? What then, Tozier-Kaspbrak?” And his mouth falls to Richie’s neck, lips resting against his pulse for a moment, eyes closed. “I love you too. I’d be worried if we didn’t love each other. That would make this marriage _super_ awkward.”

Laughing, Richie gets Eddie’s pants down and off and takes a deep, shaky breath. Eddie is wearing a garter, white lace hugging his hips, stockings up to his thighs. Richie’s heart flips over in his chest, butterflies exploding in his stomach and he drops his head for a moment, laughing softly and instantly hard. “Fuck, look at you, jesus Eddie,” smooths his hands up over his thighs.

“Nah, I still think I have the better view.” He parts his legs again for him, leaning back a little to pull the buttons on his shirt apart so he can shrug out of it and pull his vest up over his head, completely ruining the careful style he’d slicked into his hair that morning, making it stand up in cowlicks and curls. “How embarrassed would you have been getting a boner in front of everyone out there, hey? Come here. Get your pants off and come here.”

Doesn’t need to be told twice, undressing completely, socks and all, climbing over him, fingers messing up his hair even more. “that’s probably one of the less embarrassing things I’ve done in front of everyone,” he says, before kissing slowly along his jawline.

“Yeah but Peg’s here this time.” Breathlessly, the way he always is with richies mouth on him, even now. Mirrors him in getting his hands into richies curls, combing product out with his fingers, hips lifting lazily to grind against him. “Today was _perfect_. And I do like the vest. I like it even more now you’re not wearing it. I’ll never get over how big you got.”

“You flatter me,” grinning against the underside of his jaw, making a soft little sound as Eddie arches against him. “How do I fuck you with these on?” he asks, voice tinged bright, running his palm down over the front of his silk underwear. “ _Oh_ fuck—”

“It’s a thong, babe, just pull it to the side.” Purred as his body goes warm and tingly, rolling up into his hand and keening low in his throat, still beaming at the ceiling. His hands go tight in his hair, pulling him back down to nip at his lips. “Sound good?”

“Way to almost let me miss that, asshole,” Richie says, “turn around,” and he pushes at his shoulders until he can run his hands over his ass, groaning softly before he leans down to bite the soft skin there.

“Ahh— don’t bitch at me when I put time and effort into this for you.” Grins, sprawls out over the bed and pulls a pillow down to press his face into as he hitches his knees up so he’s elevated and spread out again. “Me and Bev spent _hours_ putting this together, it’s one of a kind.”

“Thanks, I love that Bev knows _exactly_ what I’m into,” Richie says, kissing the base of his spine, fingers slipping into fabric and pulling it aside to lave his tongue over him. “Did you model it for her?” he asks, sniggering.

“ _Oh_ , fuck, Rich—,” and then he’s giggling, rocking back against him and looking over his shoulder with dark dark eyes, “yeah we both wore fancy panties and had a pillow fight and then we made out.”

“Sick, was Ben in fancy panties, too?” he asks, dragging his teeth over the inside of his thigh, biting softly at the curve of his ass when he reaches it. “Jesus fuck — you know you have freckles here? Cute cute cute—”

“He was in a n-negligee.” Tripping over his own tongue, thighs shaking under his hands. “I don’t document my blemishes, Trashmouth. I’ll leave that up to you.” His dick fucking _throbs_ between his legs at the press of teeth, leaking, turning the white silk translucent as he whines and parts his knees further. “Richie, please.”

“ _Blemishes_ ,” he says in disbelief, and licks against him again, again, again, pushing his tongue inside, as he reaches between his legs to stroke the slick wet silk over his cock, groaning against him.

“Oh-oh-oh—,” and then he has to bury his face in the pillow between his arms, moaning too loudly to be muffled truly, shoving back hard against his mouth. Richie's stubble is burning him and he’s suddenly so, so glad he told him not to shave because this is _delicious_. Eddie lets go and reaches back with one hand to tangle fingers in his hair again, to hold him there more firmly as he rocks his hips back onto his tongue and swears lowly.

Richie slides the line of the panties further aside, he eats him out until his jaw hurts, until there’s a line of clean saliva rolling down the inside of Eddie’s thigh like a drop of rain. He pulls back and smacks his ass, watching it ripple across his skin. “Turn over, gorgeous,” he says, breathless, because he wants to be inside him so badly, or he wants Eddie to fuck him with those stockings on, he doesn’t care. He just needs to be that fucking close to him.

So he flips, one long leg sweeping over the top of Richies head, panting and hazy eyed and red cheeked. “You spanked me.” Gasped, hips still shifting in little circles, grabbing for his wrist to guide his fingers between his legs. “You _spanked_ me. You _asshole_.”

Richie’s fucking cock _hurts_ he’s so hard. It’s not fair that Eddie is flexible, only Eddie runs and does yoga, so he supposes it’s perfectly fair. “Did you like it?” he asks, grinning, running the heel of his hand over him, fingers sliding to brush against his entrance, circling, teasing, not pressing inside.

“Maybe.” But it’s more of a moan than a word, hips jerking upwards, clenching and relaxing against the stroking fingertips, both hands rubbing over the broad line of his shoulders up to his jaw. “Fuck you’re so fucking hot I can’t believe you willingly married me.”

“Have you seen _yourself_?” leaning down to kiss him as he reaches for the lube in the nightstand, pulling it out. “I wasn’t kidding when I said you were the most beautiful.” Kissing him deeply, licking into his mouth to the snap of the lube cap, and then his fingers are back between Eddie’s legs, pushing inside where he’s already wet from Richie’s mouth.

“I’m not my type,” and then moaning into his mouth, rutting against the fingers, body so used to the thick stretch now that it barely matters how long it’s been. It’s Richie sliding home. Where he belongs. “I like ‘em big and strong and funny.”

Richie’s already breathing shaking as he fucks into him first with two fingers, then with three, forehead against Eddie’s until he finally pulls back, sitting between his legs. There’s another snap of the lube bottle as he runs his fingers over the heat of his own cock, then wipes the excess on the sheets before he runs both hands up Eddie’s calves, all the way up his thighs to his hips, then back down, fingers pressing into the skin between where his stockings end and the garter belt begins as he pushes inside him. “Aah! Eddie—” he whispers as he sinks into his warmth. “Oh _fuck_ , Eds”

And breathing in through his teeth, panting it out again, Eddie nods. Lifts his hips into the pressure and throws his head back with a long loud cry. “Richie—,” swallows his name, anchoring his feet first on the mattress and then in the small of his back so that Richie’s fingers can slide over skin and lace, one hand braced against the headboard and the other clawlike around one asscheek. “Richie, Richie.” Rolling himself into the thrusts, pulling him in deeper with every stroke, turning his head until he can bite at his earlobe. “You always fuck me _so_ good, sweetheart. Always.”

“Yeah?” he asks, low and breathless against his ear. Because he wants — oh god, he wants to _know_. He has one hand beneath Eddie’s head, fingers tangling in his hair, his free arm folded beneath Eddie’s shoulder as he pulls him down against him, turning his face to kiss him soft and deep. “You’re good to me, you looked so— you look so fucking good. I still can’t believe…” words half-formed, lost against his mouth as he rocks against him, into that tight heat, the warmth and comfort and aching want that is _Eddie_.

“ _Oh_ my god right there.” Eddie keeps their mouths together as he speaks, clenching tight around him, sucking his tongue briefly into his mouth and bringing his other hand down to grasp at him too. “Yeah, yeahyeah so good. Best sex I’ll ever have, best sex _ever_ oh fuck—,” for a moment it’s just moaning, just the catch slide of their mouths and Richie’s weight on the insides of his thighs, the shifting press of his hips. “Ohh fuck, I— I love you so much— let’s get married again t-tomorrow shitfuck _oh_.”

Richie laughs — rocking his hips to keep stroking the spot Eddie likes, the one that makes him dissolve into swearing and gasping and bruising fingers — “I’d settle for just this,” he says, voice low, then reaches down to slide his palm over the shape of Eddie’s cock through silk. “Jesus— ah — oh, Eddie, baby, fuck, fuck,” like he isn’t bruising fingers and swearing and gasping, too. “I love you I love you I—”

“ _Fuck!_ ” Fingers digging in until they’re nails, writhing over the sheets, repositioning his legs to drag Richie in as deep as he’ll go and shuddering with the _fullness_ of it. “You— you _know_ how much I like it when you call me that, you mother _fuck_ er.” Choked as his dick twitches against his palm, through the underwear, spurts out precome to wet the material before he loosens the vice-grip of his thighs. “ _Harder._ ”

Richie grabs him by both thighs and pulls him against him, does fuck him harder, crying out sharply and then pressing his face into Eddie’s shoulder because jesus, these windows aren’t _soundproof_ he moans against his freckled skin, and then, “Eddie—” and finds his thigh again, drawing one stockinged leg over his shoulder, pulling back enough to meet his eyes “Okay? Yeah?” as he thrusts into him hard enough to shake the bed frame. 

“ _Uh huh_ ,” voice squeaking and tight, eyes enormous black moons in his face, mouth agape. “Holy shit Rich yeah— yeah that— yes.” Eddie can’t remember _any_ words, being fucked like this. Just stares up at him open mouthed and awestruck, little _ah_ s knocked from his throat with every smack of wood on wall and balls against his ass, eyes getting wider and wider as his grip on Richie slips and he has to fist both his hands in the pillows beside his head. “ _Fuck_ —ing—Christ— _Ri—chie_!” He slams his eyes closed, neck arching, hands twisting, breathing rushed as he tries to quell the feeling building in him. He doesn’t want to come yet. He doesn’t want Richie to stop fucking him like this.

And… maybe months ago, another life, another town, Richie would have hushed him — laughing, sweet, but afraid, still. Because forget soundproof, the window’s half open, warm Spring breeze blowing in over their sweat-filmed skin. That fear doesn’t exist anymore. Not here. Not with Eds, his _husband_ , Eddie Tozier-Kaspbrak, oh jesus. 

“Yeah, baby, that’s it,” he breathes, free hand spreading over his stomach, fingertips tracing the line of his cock, sliding easily over the silk, up and down, the _idea_ of a hand job more than a real one. “I’m so fucking close Eds— I’m so close—” Lapsing into whispered, breathless as words fail him and it’s just movement and silk and warmth and heat and _Eddie_ — and he comes, hard, soundless, achingly sweet.

And Eddie’s fucking _bones_ lock up as he clenches down against the liquid heat inside him, gasping like he still needs an aspirator, and it’s with three heaves of his chest that he comes with just the ghost of Richie’s hand on him, soaking through the front of the underwear, his guttural scream drawing vague barks of laughter and Bills voice yelling _finish him!_ through the cracked window. 

He doesn’t even have it in him to be embarrassed. Fuck Bill. Bill didn’t just get fucked within an inch of his life. He breathes out a shaky giggle, lifts his head and buries his nose into Richie’s clavicle.

Richie dissolves into laughter, lowering Eddie’s leg from his shoulder and wrapping him up in his arms, holding tight, breathing in the smell of hair product and sweat and Eds. Just when he thinks he’s caught his breath, he starts laughing again, but this time it’s just— everything, everything. Relief, maybe, and he’s so tired after today. His cheeks hurt from smiling and he’s definitely pulled something but it’s so so fucking good. “I love you,” he says against Eddie’s ear. “I love you way too much.”

“You love me just the right amount.” Sleepily, wriggling and reaching to get out of the bridal lingerie Beverly had worked so hard on. “Same as I love you just the right amount.” Rolling into his side to be tucked into the side of Richies chest, eyes on the window as he pulls the blanket over them both, blinking slow and content like a housecat, listening to the others still chattering and laughing and singing outside. Everyone all together. Lucky number seven again. 

He misses Stan. He misses Stan desperately, wants to know how he’d think of this day. What he would have said as best man, standing next to Bill in his suit, wants to know whether he’d be happy and laughing drunk or stern and playful and _I hate you_ through smiling eyes.

He wants to know so much that he’ll never get to confirm, now. 

And yet, listening to Mike and Bill whooping over the music, Beverly’s shrill laughter mixing with Pegs, Ben half shouting at someone to get their hands off of his dick… maybe it’s okay. Maybe he doesn’t need to see, or confirm, how Stanley Uris would feel about this day. It’s with this thought that Eddie turns his face into Richie’s chest, half looking for a way to verbalize his thoughts, hand over the steady thrum of his heart, in their home, and drifts off to sleep.

~

Richie folds himself around Eddie, fingers in his hair, and for a long time he just listens to their friends outside. Listens to the conversation wind down to something bright and fizzing with laughter, listens to the familiar sound of Eddie’s breath when he’s asleep, thinks about how goddamn lucky he is. Thinks about Stan with a twist in his gut and an ache in his heart — the empty chair for him, always, the glass filled with champagne, golden bubbles rising in it like fireflies in the glow of the lights outside. He misses him keenly and knows Eddie does, too. Knows they all do. He traces the ridges of Eddie’s spine and the soft skin at the back of his arm and studies the freckles on his nose in the lamplight and he’s so fucking overwhelmed with love and it’s funny because it doesn’t feel any different, really. Being husbands. They’re still the same — just exactly as they always were. And he loves him so much his eyes mist up a little, because he’s the world’s biggest sap, he fucking knows it. He smiles to himself, rolling his eyes a little because— because.

Here they are. Somehow, here they are.

Carefully, without waking him, he kisses his cheek and shapes the words they’ve said to each other a hundred thousand times, and will say a hundred thousand more — just one more to remember and not forget. Not this time.

~

**EPILOGUE**

Two years to the day that Eddie Kaspbrak crawled out of a sewer and, like a missile, sought out the man who would bring him home (he still, sometimes, responds with _do you want soup?_ when Richie tells him he loves him) he stands alone on the porch of an Idyllwild cabin. It’s dawn, and the suns fingers are just starting to poke through the trees. He sighs with a deep, knowing satisfaction that Richie is behind him. In the house, upstairs, asleep in the bed that they share. In the living room, a pair of lovebirds whistle away to one another — unnamed, just _darling_ and _baby_ and occasionally _argh, biting motherfucker._ The kitchen walls have slowly become plastered in photos - their wedding, their honeymoon in Vermont, Beverlys birthday, Peg drinking a cocktail and giving the camera the finger - and taped-up recipes they’ve tried.

The archway under which they’d promised themselves to each other is still up in the back yard. There are so many little signs here, little puzzle pieces and diary entries that signify their love for one another, and because it’s the anniversary Ian’s it’s sunrise Eddie is kind of… far away. He’s here, in the mountains, but he’s in Derry too. Standing on a bridge thinking that the man he loves is going to throw him into the rapids below, but showing him their initials etched into wood. Eddie wants to go back just to cut that plank from the fencing so that they can bring it home and have it here, instead.

He sighs again and closes his eyes for a moment. Breathes in the steam from his coffee and remembers how Richie had kissed him, then. The millions of kisses they’ve shared since. The billions of times they’ve said _I love you_ in words and actions and when he opens his eyes again there’s a sparrow hopping along the railing in front of him. The wood that separates the house from the gravel of their driveway. It’s such a bright, funny little creature that Eddie can’t help but watch it. It chirrups at him, turns its head to fix one beady eye on him, hops another handful of times and then chirrups again. Below it’s little scaly clawed feet, the morning dew is gathering in marks on their fence and Eddie thinks — well, they don’t get trespassers up here. Theres no one here to vandalize their property, so what is that?

The sparrow flies off into the trees, twittering for its breakfast, and in response Eddie hears other birds. Other sparrows. Starlings and jays and crows. He kneels, squinting in the half light, brushes the water away and—.

Oh. Oh, his husband is a romantic old fool. Eddie laughs, softly, runs his fingers over the R and the E and then sets his coffee cup down to head inside and fetch his screwdriver to add their wedding date underneath. Maybe they should go to Derry, add it to the one there as well. Maybe Eddie should go and wake Richie now to show him so that he knows that Eddie knows how much they love each other. But then, that would mean admitting that he hasn’t noticed it before now.

Besides, Eddie thinks, returning to his coffee and slipping the tool into his back pocket, when it comes to matters of love and the heart, and the people who live within, Richie knows well enough.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the final part of the City Limits series, thank you _so_ much for reading.
> 
> Their first dance song is, of course, North Star by The Rural Alberta Advantage.  
> The Elvis that Richie sings in karaoke is Burning Love.


End file.
